


Backdrop of Sails

by building_a_desert



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Father/Son Incest, Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Prompt Fill, References to Attempted Rape/Noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1438099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/building_a_desert/pseuds/building_a_desert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Carl preferred his father tethered safely to his sanity, the sudden distance between them seemed emphasized. It wasn’t as if they ignored one another; eye contact was almost constant with Rick glancing in his son’s direction every few minutes as if trying to make sure the boy hadn’t vanished. But the usual intensity, the storm brewing in those blue eyes, was masked here, tempered. Carl wasn’t sure how he felt about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backdrop of Sails

**Author's Note:**

> Based off a prompt on tumblr:
> 
> "Intimate touching/ happenings in the train car at terminus? Maybe people don't catch on but maybe they do and don't even care?"
> 
> Ughhhh this took me WAY too long; sorry for making everyone wait. So I really hope I was sensitive enough to the subject of Carl's assault and didn't just get all gung-ho about sex and "healing cock" even though they don't (how could they even) go all the way here. I completely understand that the last thing a survivor wants after an ordeal like that is more invasion of personal space, but the prompt hinted at desperate, needy touches and since I wasn't going to just ignore canon, I tried to work with it. Please let me know if I was just a fucking idiot about it and trust me when I say I meant absolutely no offense
> 
> Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own. Enjoy!

* * *

 

 

 

                The box car wasn’t exactly spacious. Roughly 60 ft. long and around 10 ft. wide, the space _might_ have been enough for the eight already present. But now, with a total of twelve people, capacity was just about at maximum.

 

                Throw in the extreme humidity, the lack of solid food, and the sheer fact that they were being held prisoner and the resulting ill tempers were only expected. Carl stayed mostly to himself, avoiding conversation as best he could. Given the circumstances, he really didn’t know what there was he had to offer.

                               

                Of course Michonne actively sought him out, made sure he didn’t retreat too far into his own head. Her friendly demeanour had notably diminished though, retreating behind her stoicism, and while he knew she was trying, trying for _his_ sake, a few forced smiles were all Carl could really muster.

 

                The rest were a mixture of wavering optimism and certain doom. Some, like Glenn and Maggie, did their best to maintain an air of stability. This might have been due to their recent reunion, something they relayed with a sense of stunted happiness, but it was nice to have something around, even just a simple dynamic between two people, that wasn’t saturated in dread. For this display of solidarity, Carl deeply admired the couple.

 

                Sasha was silent most days and often seen sitting close to Bob, who did his best to be a pillar for the woman. He was quick to flash a smile her way, even – especially – when all she could manage was a sigh. Daryl hung back, the quiet grumble escaping, often muttering with Rick quietly. He usually opted for watch, peering calmly out one of the limited gaps in the metal for hours on end.

 

                As for those that Carl had only just met, he couldn’t accurately gauge. Abraham and Rosita, it became apparent, were _something_ to each other. But they seemed withdrawn, had little hope for escape. Eugene, apparent genius with the supposed answer to the apocalypse, maintained a kind of awkward, but well-meaning attitude, while Tara seemed haunted. She didn’t say much, sometimes wore a smile similar to Carl’s, but mostly looked lost in thought.

 

                Rick, meanwhile, was arguably the most animated of the group. He seemed restless, often pacing, keeping a weather eye out for any sign of danger. But this wasn’t the deranged, grief-fueled mania displayed back at the prison. This Rick maintained a level of strength absent in the past.

 

                The cogs in his father’s head were running at full power, but his eyes retained focus. He was never too far below the surface that he couldn’t respond immediately. It seemed a new determination was present in the man’s face that Carl couldn’t be sure he’d ever seen before, and definitely couldn’t fathom. Though faced with almost certain death, the method of which he’d heard the others discussing, the teen was feeling at best apathetic.

 

                But while Carl preferred his father tethered safely to his sanity, the sudden distance between them seemed emphasized. It wasn’t as if they ignored one another; eye contact was almost constant with Rick glancing in his son’s direction every few minutes as if trying to make sure the boy hadn’t vanished. But the usual intensity, the storm brewing in those blue eyes, was masked here, tempered. Carl wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

 

                He still hadn’t said more than a few sentences to Rick since _it_ happened _._ Carl didn’t want to give the memory any more weight than he could help, didn’t want to let _it_ crowd too much of his mind with ugly words laced with fear and panic. The pronoun was suitably indistinguishable; _it_ didn’t draw attention to itself. So he filed the incident away, preferring, at least for now, to pretend _it_ didn’t happen. He couldn’t dwell on the past if he wanted to survive the present.

 

                At night the boxcar tended to get considerably cooler. Naturally the three couples found comfort in one another’s arms, while others huddled closer than they might have under different conditions. Carl had been fortunate enough to curl up in one of the corners most nights. Back turned towards the others, he’d rest, but seldom slept.

 

                Thoughts plagued the corners of his mind, raw anxiety licked its way up his spine whenever he dozed. Dreams were worse, and more than once the boy had awoken, cold sweat drenching his body, heart hammering in his ears. He never turned around to make sure no one had heard; he was sure someone had.

 

                Rick always slept close to Carl, body curled protectively to shield his son from view, but never quite touching, another change in their routine. Before, his father would encompass his body, arms wrapped securely around his torso while soft breaths tickled his neck.

 

                This recent separation, though, it left Carl feeling conflicted. Did he yearn for the older man’s affection or did he fear it? Did he fear his father or his _reaction_ to his father? Why couldn’t he control the quickly spiraling track of his thoughts anymore, why did each question have to beget another?

 

                The metal was hard beneath Carl’s body, cold and unforgiving to the aches and pains littering the expanse of his skin. He lay on his side, as usual, head resting on the slightly crumpled sheriff’s hat while he drew his hoodie tight. Feeling shivers wrack his body, the boy wished fervently that he’d managed to loot a thicker jacket.

 

                It was quiet, the closest to calm things ever seemed to get these days. Everyone was silent; deep breaths were barely audible but there was no telling who actually slept or not. Carl had been startled awake, by an outside influence or a dream he had no idea, and felt the familiar chill of waking up alone.

 

                “Hey.”

 

                The voice surprised him, causing him to tense and attempt to turn around, before a hand was placed on his shoulder. Not restraining, just supporting.

 

                “It’s okay. Just me.”

 

                Feeling the tension drain from his body, the boy remained facing the wall. The sound of Rick’s whispered tones resulted in an immediate response of his body, something he might have resented before but could only be grateful towards now. Basic biology dictated that his father’s voice had that effect, an established truth that nothing could alter.

 

                A thumb traced tiny circles on his bicep, like it was instinctively seeking to comfort. Carl, adrenaline slowly making way for the release of dopamine, could now sense the very near presence of the man behind him. Having someone directly in his 6 O’clock tended to unnerve him lately, but combined with his other senses kicking into gear, Carl was able to make out the faint musk of his father, a scent his mind had intrinsically linked with security.

 

                Before he knew what he was doing, the teen scooted back until he closed the small divide between them, his back pressed to Rick’s chest. The act itself had been performed dozens of times over, spooning having been commonplace between them. But the subconscious display of trust felt more _significant_ this time, and he knew why, but _immediately_ stomped down on that train of thought. There wasn’t time for fear anymore.

 

                An arm slowly slid around his waist, keeping their upper bodies in contact but leaving a noticeable gap between their lower torsos. Carl didn’t push the issue, not knowing if it would make himself or his father more uncomfortable. At the moment, he wasn’t even sure the man wanted – _whatever_ their relationship had been up until now, anymore. What began at the prison under the cover of night seems to have been revoked, and an indisputable nugget of guilt and _shame_ has taken up residence where quiet contentment used to dwell.

 

                “Is this okay?” was whispered into his hair, more lungs than vocal chords.

 

                “Of course it is,” he murmured, lacing his fingers with that of his fathers, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

 

                But he knew why, and he knew Rick’s thoughts were on the same thing. He knew why and he wished he didn’t. Could still feel rough hands keeping him frozen, groping him, reducing him to a helpless mess while lips, _a stranger’s lips,_ mouthed at his ear, whispering horrific things to him, shushing him in a shameless mockery of paternal comfort.

 

                Apparently the very real panic had manifested physically, because next he knew, Carl felt his father begin to pull away, obviously and correctly assuming the contact had been a trigger. But the boy couldn’t _fathom_ being without an anchor, couldn’t endure feeling that bereft again so soon. He held onto Rick’s forearm, fingers refusing to extricate themselves from his father’s while molding himself more fully to the larger frame.

 

                “I’m fine,” he whispered, voice catching on a breath, “I’m fine, just please. I can’t..”

 

                But Carl had no idea what he could or couldn’t do at this point. He just felt lost without his father, like he couldn’t feel anything without the man’s attention. But the moment he was _given_ that attention, he was immediately overwhelmed with emotions he couldn’t handle, didn’t know of any outlet other than the one he thought he had with his father. And with its absence, Carl just felt _wrong._

 

                Twisting around, he met Rick’s eyes, shining bright and attentive even in the nearly tangible darkness, before pressing his lips to the man’s. It bordered on desperate, hands tightly fisting in his father’s shirt as leverage to keep him close. He just needed the reassurance, the guarantee that he had his father and his father had him because anything less couldn’t possibly be enough.

 

                The last few days have caused thoughts to slither, unbidden, through his head. Dirty, pathetic, _weak_. And though he fought to ignore them, they spoke in his own voice and that made him start to question his resolve. But the surprise, the hesitance, and ultimate surrender of the older man finally clicked something in Carl’s head: the rift between may not have been _his fault._

 

                He didn’t blame himself for what happened, had the presence of mind to battle against the archetype of “victim”, even if _it_ hadn’t gone as far as was possible. But his own shortcomings, his self-perceived lack of strength combined with the confusion and muddled anger towards those responsible served only to drastically upend his confidence in himself and his relationships. He had thought, jumped to the conclusion maybe, that Rick would want out, would see his son for the helpless, bitter, _damaged_ monster that he was.

 

                But the surge of emotions translating through their lips told a different story. Rick’s hands cupped his Carl’s face, cradling it, while he coaxed the boy’s tongue into his own mouth, leading without dominating. The exchange felt normal _,_ but there was no denying the underlying current of uncertainty on his father’s part.

 

                Carl noted the exceedingly gentle manner he was being treated in and the notion of Rick being afraid entered his mind. Afraid, not of what was between them, but of _forcing_ what was between them, of frightening Carl. It was so clear now, Rick creating distance as a means of protecting his son in a well-meaning but incredibly misguided attempt. Even now, the kiss felt too gentle, too controlled. It didn’t contain the usual passion with hasty words and hurried undressing that Carl absolutely _needed._

 

                Rick wasn’t going to push their affair any further out of fear, but Carl would prove to him he could out of love.

 

                Taking one of his father’s hands, Carl guided it down his body, not missing the shudder that went through the man, and pressed it against the front of his jeans. He felt Rick tense, fingers twitching once as if unsure of themselves, but didn’t let the man pull away. Unless the teen was horribly mistaken, Rick wanted to provide comfort as much as Carl craved it, train car of people be damned.

 

                “Please,” he whispered against Rick’s lips, “I need this right now, I need _you._ ”

 

                As if a switch had been flipped, the older man bodily turned Carl so that he faced the wall, back pressed snug to Rick’s front. Hands wandered confidently over the boy’s chest, slipping under the layers of clothing to gently caress a small rosy nipple while the other unbuttoned his tightly-fitting jeans. When his quickly awakening member was taken in hand, Carl felt so caught off guard his breath caught in a gasp. As if to remind him, a hand cupped his chin and turned it gently while lips sought his own once again.

 

                He couldn’t help the tiny thrusts of his hips, the sensations commandeering his body, while his hands grasped tight to his father’s strong arms holding him in place. The large hand pumping him nearly concealed his length, fingers thick and dexterous, skilled from years of self-exploration Carl never had. It sent a wicked thrill through him, the knowledge that these _were_ those years, causing him to break the kiss and turn away, biting down on his lip to muffle any sounds that ached to break through.

 

                “You’re safe, you’re just fine,” was barely audible over his own heartbeat, but the teen immediately grappled onto his father’s voice as if it were lifeline.

 

                "Never have to be afraid. Always safe with me, _always.”_

                “My precious boy; so good, you’re doing _so good.”_

                Urgency was on the rise, nerves alighting all along Carl’s body as the strokes increased in tempo. With kisses being laid down his neck and collarbone and sweet _somethings_ being whispered in his ear, the boy felt his orgasm quickly approaching.

 

                “Dad,” he warned, voice this side of desperate, a whine clearly longing to break through, “Dad I’m gonna –”

 

                Anything else was lost to Carl as he came, hips stuttering helplessly, face burrowed in his father’s arm. He tried to muffle his whimper in the fabric, but practicality and discretion weren’t high on his list of priorities at that moment.

 

                A few moments passed where Rick gently coaxed all the pleasure he could from his son, stroking him past the point of sensory-overload until Carl squirmed slightly in discomfort. With the utmost care, he tucked the boy away and pulled his clothes back into place before pulling the teen close once again.

 

                “What about you?” Carl asked, aware of the unmistakable bulge against his lower back.

 

                “Not about me,” came the mumbled reply, lips pressed soothingly to his neck, “This was for you.”

 

                Normally he would argue, insist Rick reach the same level of completion and satisfaction at his son’s hands. But a very sudden weariness swept over Carl’s mind, sleep deprivation and undue stress catching up with him.

 

                Instead he settled back, drawing those arms closer to him, and closed his eyes. The solid body behind him didn’t frighten him, and though this one did follow him into his dreams, there was no room for fear, not anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> You guys should _definitely_ come follow me at humdrum-star.tumblr.com~ ALSO I'm still taking Grimecest prompts, despite my god awful time management skills.  <3


End file.
